Me, my mother and death

or how Gitta ’s attitude to death is still influencing me. To listen to this post in French, click below I don’t write much in the blog these days, too lazy, but Ronni’s post, And When I Die… where she also announces the death of Olive Riley , the Australian blogger who died at age 108, got me to remember. Gitta was scared, I think, of anything relating to death, to the point that she considered it bad luck to even talk about it. If you spoke badly of a dead person, which I enjoyed doing, just to rile her a bit, she’d do her spitting three times act , to ward off bad things. Pooh, pooh, pooh ! she would go! You don’t speak evil of the dead! If I sat on the floor, which in my youth I loved to do –wish I were nimble enough to do it–, that was bad too and she’d grumble until I got up. It took me years before I understood that to her, sitting on the floor was wrong because of the expected behaviour of...